Sean Bean Saves Westeros - Book 2: Sean Wins by a Nose
by High Plains Drifter
Summary: The continuing adventures of not Ned trying to bring a little peace and sanity to the Seven Kingdoms. Sean's accomplished Step One; and for better or worse, Stannis now sits the Iron Throne. Unfortunately, the King's brother Renly wants Westeros for himself and he's got more than enough swords to do it. What can the actor from Sheffield do to keep the realm from splitting assunder?
1. Chapter 1

**MELISANDRE**

The logs crackled and hissed and splintered, practically exploding as the flames sucked the last moisture out of the driftwood; the intense heat for once driving the ever present dampness out of the salt stained black walls of her apartment in the Stone Drum. The winds outside howled and shrieked above Blackwater Bay; setting a discordant, eerie beat as they struck against Dragonstone's main keep, whistling as they wrapped around the edges of the obsidian gargoyles festooning the thick structure, and occasionally spewing a gust that darted down the narrow chimney to make the blaze burn even hotter, brighter. The Red Priestess hardly noticed the noise and soaring temperature as she steadily fed more and more fuel into the fireplace, the overly stoked bonfire threatening to spill out over the grate and set the Myrish carpet on which she crouched aflame. Against her fervent counsel, Azor Ahai reborn had sailed off the desolate island without her, without her visions, without her wisdom, without her protection, to accept the Iron Throne being handed him by whom? The weak willed, the deluded, disbelievers, and worse. "More fire," she whispered, "I must see _him_!" She drove a rotten piece of old mast or ship's ribbing into the middle of the conflagration, ignoring the sparks that shot out to singe her where she hovered expectantly. The ruby ensconced within the red gold choker circling her slender neck began to glow.

In her long life Melisandre had foreseen much and always relied on her R'hllor given iron will to divine the true path through the multitude of visions the flames revealed. Never had the reflections and shadows produced by the Lord of Light failed to divulge the true way forward, until now. Frustration threatened her control as she concentrated her very being into the offerings of reds, yellows, and oranges swirling before her, their heat buffeting her body as it stood so close the flames almost caressed her. After decades of search she had at last found the savior against the Great Other, Azor Ahai reborn, she could not lose sight of him now. The Red Priestess fed knotted, twisted driftwood into the fire, hoping to catch a glimpse of her strong, unbending King through the impossibly bright light surrounding him.

At first she'd barely noticed the bright spot on the periphery of her visions when it first appeared in the North; Westeros was huge and the cold dark reach of the God of Ice and Death even larger. Besides, her concentration had been on her King; first manipulating his wife's devotion to gain admittance to his councils and then gaining his trust by directing her visions to seek the strength necessary for Stannis to take what he sought, what he demanded: a throne, a crown, his lawful due. Eventually, inevitably, the path shown by the flames had led her to King's Landing, as only there could Azor Ahai fully accept his God ordained mission. But with every glimpse of the capital snatched from the flame, she found this brilliant icy comet from the North coming closer and closer too; drowning out her own R'hllor aided light and shadows, until on the very day the King and his fleet departed Dragonstone she could no longer discern any objects or people, let alone their actions, from within the terrible luminescence now wrapped around the city. Melisandre hissed in discomfort. The ruby around her neck throbbed in warning and defense. She dropped the warped, bark denuded branch she held into the flames. Fire could turn hot enough to burn even one who worshipped it.

Eight days ago Azor Ahai reborn had sailed. Four days ago he'd disappeared within the cold, stark white, impenetrable glow. Since then … no ravens … no news had left the grip of the icy comet circling King's Landing. Selyse, so used to the priestess' mysterious ways of knowing, now pestered her constantly for word of her lord husband. Cressen, who's death she had once foreseen only to watch in the flames as his end turned from a violent, poisonous one to that of a crippled dotage, positively smirked with every public display of her new found impotence. She must find _him_! She could not lose sight of him who was reborn, let him fall into the clutches of the Great Other. The flames stirred. The ruby glowed hotter, throbbing, scorching the skin of her neck. But at last, tendrils of red and orange split apart before her to reveal a hotter, cleaner blue buried in the heart of the fire. Something came out of smoke and fog, a wind at its back. One boat, two boats, three boats carrying the Baratheon Stag upon their sails; all smaller ships, none Kingly. She searched for the King amongst the crew, finding a few familiar faces, but he was not there. What did it mean? Why was this important?

Melisandre sang a prayer to R'hllor for guidance and in response a face took shape in the seething white and blue hot coals at the bottom of the fireplace. A Lorathi stood on the deck of the lead boat, not far from where the almost thread bare captain of the modest ship talked with a walrus of a man clad foolishly at sea in chainmail. The God shown Essosi stood out for having one side of his hair dyed white as the driven snow and the other the pure red of fire. "An omen," the priestess murmured. The flames flickered. The stranger's face was gone, but a new one arose in front of her; that of an ordinary ship's hand. She watched herself at the front of a squad of guards meet the lead ship as it docked at the port turned back to simple fishing village beneath the castle. The fiery tendrils bent, sputtered, and soared high again; the ship hand no longer existed but a destitute wood merchant pushed his humble cart through the wards of Dragonstone hawking his pile of driftwood first to the steward of the Great Hall and later to the steward of the Windwyrm Tower. The fire jumped. Guards, arms alertly drawn, marched passed a spindly old man scaling fish in the courtyard. Flicker. Flash. A thin, straw haired man afflicted with painful boils used a twig brush to sweep the stairs of the Stone Drum, slowly coming, closer, closer to … a door opened. Melisandre watched herself in a flowing red silk gown step out of the apartment into the hall and pass the near leprous wretch, heading for the stairs to the Chamber of the Painted Table. Less than a minute later a high pitched cry pierced the air, only to have it cut off and replaced by the sound of a tumbling body and the cracking of bones. The man's eyes twinkled, and then his face warped, altering into that of man with a hook nose and curly black hair.

The Red Priestess suddenly felt chill in the sweltering heat of her salon as the flames returned to mere fire and her ruby slowly stopped glowing. The Many-Faced God required her as an offering. "Valar morghulis," she whispered. Then, in a louder, righteous voice, Melisandre proclaimed, "My service to R'hllor is not ready to end."

* * *

><p>"Her Grace requests your presence in the Great Hall, my lady," the messenger stated.<p>

Melisandre eyed him suspiciously. She knew him. Or thought she did. Not a worshipper of R'hllor; not yet at least, but she'd spied him a few times in the back, watching, listening to the words of the true God while she preached. More importantly she had not seen version of his face in her flames over the last six days. But … "Come Qahrl," she commanded. "Share the warmth of the Red God's gift with me a moment, before we return to her Grace."

Nervously the tall boy sidled up beside the priestess who was already gazing into the fire. The Red Woman was very pretty and even more frightening. He snuck a glance at her, bosom thrust out high above a narrow waist.

"Do you pray, Qahrl?" she asked kindly.

He slowly licked his lips. "Sometimes, my lady," he mumbled.

"By the light of R'hllor?" she prodded.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Good, good," she cooed, staring into the blaze, concentrating. Light and shadow danced together, revealing to her the possibilities. She nodded. Yes, she'd seen that coming death and knew how to avoid it. A brief jet of air down the flume caused the flames to flair; a new vision. Death and then … death avoided … followed by a final death flittered in front of her inner eye. Yes, R'hllor had shown her this path before. Now she was certain of her course. "The shadows cast by the Lord of Light lead to the path of salvation," she announced with a fervent smile. "We may leave now, Qahrl."

"Yes, my lady," the boy intoned dutifully.

Pausing at the table beside the door, the priestess pointed at box resting on it. "Bring that Qarhl, 'tis a gift for her Grace."

They left the heat of her apartment where two boiled leather wearing guards carrying sparr axes immediately stepped in behind them, following them to the central staircase. Down, down, down they headed. Even for a mere outpost on the very edge of their Freehold, the Valyrians had built expansively. "Stay close, brothers," she commanded, the ruby in her red gold choker heating up, as they took the last flight of stairs. They strode onto the black marble floor of the entrance hall and walked towards the main doors of the Stone Drum.

Above their heads the wrought iron chandelier dangling from the heavy black stone blocks used hundreds of years ago to build the castle creaked and shifted. A smirk pierced her lips. The Faceless Men were not known to indiscriminately slaughter in order to fulfill a contract, collecting only the soul or souls due them and none more. The candles in the chandelier flickered as the heavy piece of metal swayed slightly, but remained, for now, bolted in place. For the third time in the last two days Melisandre felt a death pass over her. R'hllor still guided her, the one true God's greatest disciple; she knew it in the depth of her heart.

* * *

><p>"Welcome, Lady Melisandre," Selyse Baratheon stated loudly from the high table in the middle of the dragon's belly, the benches of the Great Hall were already filling up an unusual boisterous good cheer though the early evening's feast was more than an hour away.<p>

Rumor had floated in the air as the priestess stepped from the Stone Drum into the setting sun, passed over the lower bailey, crossed through the gate of the inner wall, and approached the prone dragon form the Valyrians had shaped stone into in building the castle's main gathering place. While the flames had not shown her what the smallfolks celebrated, she held faith in her chosen King; the news was not unexpected.

"There is much to rejoice," the Queen proclaimed, a parchment lay spread out in front of her. Those in the hall were already at drink long before the serving of the dinner's typical fish stew or seabird pie, an exceedingly rare gesture of generosity by Azor Ahai reborn's flinty wife.

A shy, but proud looking Shireen sat at one hand of her mother and the fat Manderly knight, walrus beard split in a jovial grin, by Selyse's other hand. Ancient Cressen, appearing frustratingly smug, sat next to Ser Wendel. The Queen's uncle, the castellan of Dragonstone, the homely Ser Axell, afflicted as all the Florent's were with oversized ears and a dyspeptic disposition, bookended his niece Shireen. At the Queen's shoulder stood Maester Pylos, clearly the bearer of good news from the rookery high atop the Sea Dragon Tower; now far too long and difficult a walk for the elderly, debilitated Cressen. Patchface, as ever, prattled nonsense in the background; ignored. "_The shadows come to dance my lady, dance my lady, dance my lady. The shadows come to stay my lady, stay my lady, stay my lady._"

"The Red God watches over his Grace, my husband," Selyse declared. "He has wrested the Red Keep from the vile Lannisters and now bestrides the Iron Throne. Hail King Stannis!" she cried with as much emotion and vigor as her sharp, brittle voice could carry.

"Hail King Stannis!" the entire hall chanted back, cheerily enough.

"My Queen," Melisandre shouted, voice drowned out by the din. Dissatisfied, with the results, the priestess threw up her hands. Purple powder sparkled as it flew through the air towards the two nearest torch stands.

WOOOOOOSH! WOOOOOOSH!

Huge bursts of greenish blue flame leapt high out of the affected torches, bathing the entire hall in an eerie glow for a moment. A few shouts of surprise and fear greeted the pyrotechnic display, but mostly awed silence.

"One realm, one god, one King," the Red Woman started to chant.

"One realm, one god, one King," a few voices, including that of Selyse,promptly joined in.

More and more took up the catechism. "One realm, one god, one King! One realm, one god, one King! One realm, one god, one King!" Fists began to pound on tables and feet stomp on the rush strewn floor, adding emphasis to the beat of the chant and the general cacophony engulfing the room.

Dramatically Melisandre raised her arms again, gesturing for silence.

This time the smallfolk took note of her. The chant ebbed and receded.

"We must give praise to the Red God for starting Azor Ahai reborn on his blazing path of triumph over the Great Other!" As the Red Woman spoke, the candles and torches and fires a lit in the Great Hall began to whither and dim. "The nameless one's evil is greatest in the dark. He revels in the black cold, void of love and heat and life. With Stannis as our King, let us show we fear not the Ancient Enemy, nor even death itself, and set a great fire of thanksgiving in the night … tonight!" And now, aside from the sparse rosy tones of the setting sun slipping in through the dragon mouth shaped vestibule of the Great Hall, the only source shedding light within came from the throbbing ruby at the priestess' throat.

"Tonight," warbled Selyse, standing up; the red glow of the ruby reflecting in her otherwise pale, insipid eyes.

* * *

><p>"Your Grace, our praise of R'hllor would be ever so much the stronger if we fed the false idols of the Seven to his fire," Melisandre passionately insisted. They were gathered in the Steward of the Great Hall's now cramped office, not far from the dais supporting the high table. "There's still time for your men to harvest the sept so they may become part of our burnt offerings."<p>

"How, dare …" burst the decrepit Cressen, only to have his outburst stunted by the young Maester Pylos gently laying a warning hand on the old man's stooped shoulders.

"As dear Maester Cressen wisely said earlier, your Grace; the King has not yet made an official break with the Faith, no matter his personal leanings," the newly minted Maester stated with more than a little nervousness to his voice in challenging the Red Woman in front of Selyse. "If this were to happen and word of it reach the King's new banners, they might take it quite ill and withdraw their support."

"Deluded northerners who worship trees they claim are the Old Gods," Melisandre scoffed. "They care not for the Seven; and, their strength amounts to nothing compared to the might of the Red God."

"The fat knight is a believer in the Faith," Cressen's wizened voice interjected, "even if he is from the North. Youf Grace saw how wroth he turned at the idea of a sept being desecrated and the images of the Seven destroyed. Lord Stan ... his Grace valued the Ser enough to lead this admittedly strange dragonglass gathering expedition here."

"Aye, and entrusted him with those letters to the Northern households," Selyse agreed warily.

"Or valued him so little the King thought nothing of exiling this obese, deceived presence away from the light of Azor Ahai reborn's grace," the priestess counter posed.

"And you would make that judgment without first consulting the King?" Pylos asked. "Now we know the city and its keep have fallen, 'tis simple enough to send his Grace a raven seeking his royal guidance.

The priestess frowned; she was meant to guide the savior, not him her. What's more, something of this northman's mission did not sit well with her, it smelled of deep mystery and perhaps conspiracy. The letters were mere political wrangling. The core of the King's worldly strength, had he truly won the Iron Throne, would neither be made nor broken by the actions his written words would bring to the cold, deluded North. But the dragonglass, frozen fire, that … that hinted of darker deeds hovering beyond her keen, so much of her focus the last two days within the flames devoted to simply ensuring her own survival; no time to follow the near infinite number of shadows and reflections of light to discover the need for so much of the black liquid rock. 'Is there another from a Red Temple come to Westeros to confront the Great Other?' she wondered. That might explain the impenetrable light blocking her. No, Melisandre knew all the world's high priests and prophets of R'hllor. She was the oldest of them. She was a Shadowbinder. She was the strongest and the wisest. The Lord of Light held her in his palm; she and she alone, except of course for Azor Ahai reborn whom he held in his other hand. 'That cannot be the answer.'

"Don't you agree, Lady Melisandre?" old Cressen cackled.

"Your counsel grows as long winded and deluded as your mind and body, Maester," she responded.

"But the Maester has a point, your Grace," Pylos said, addressing Selyse. "Once burnt, the statues of the Seven cannot be unburnt. But left unburnt, they remain always to await the King's pleasure to burn them if he ever so commands."

The Queen's dour, doughty face shown with unhappiness, her lips clenched so tight and sharp they might pass for the edge of a blade. "Very well," she snapped. "Ser Axell," she said, addressing her uncle, also a follower of the Red God, who had remained silent in a corner as the priestess' request was debate. "See that the building of the bonfire in the Outer Yard is complete within the hour, I will come then to set alit our praise to the true God. But no slight is to be given to the Seven this night. Oh, and be sure the smallfolk of the village and island side are encouraged to attend."

"Wisely done, your Grace," Cressen replied, a bit too obviously pleased with the outcome. A victory over the Red Priestess was a rare occurrence for the old man.

Maester Pylos, with true wisdom, kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to the floor.

Ser Axell unhappily bobbed his chubby head in compliance with the Queen's command and left the room.

"I feel unclean," Selyse announced harshly, "having denied the Red God his proper sacrifice. Away with you all now, I must contemplate my sin."

The others left. Melisandre lingered. The flames had not lied to her yet about this night. "Let me purify you, your Grace. Make you a virgin in spirit before the eyes of R'hllor," she said softly, seductively.

The Queen's dull eyes suddenly sparkled at the idea. "Yes, make me a bride worthy of Azor Ahai," Selyse said with such a fervor, a near ecstasy, that her hard, sharp mouth softened into something almost pleasant to behold.

Melisandre smiled kindly. Then she began to hum a tune she'd learned long ago and far away in Asshai.

* * *

><p>"I feel different," Selyse announced.<p>

"The grace of R'hllor has descended upon you, your Grace. Making you a consort fit for Azor Ahai reborn, a true daughter of Nissa Nissa," the priestess explained.

"My voice sounds … different," she said hesitantly.

"You've just sung the psalms of R'hllor, your Grace," Melisandre cajoled. "His strength has entered you. Tonight, when you speak before the flames, you will speak with his voice, his power. You are taking the first step in becoming an acolyte of his sacred flame."

"Yes, yes," the beautiful glowing woman staring back at Melisandre said, feeling the truth of the words spoken to her.

The priestess smiled. "I have a final present for you, your Grace." She handed over the box the messenger Qarhl had brought down from her room.

Selyse lifted the lid. She gasped. She reached down and pulled out a silken red gown.

"If you are to become his acolyte, you must dress the part in R'hllor's presence, your Grace," she explained.

Selyse's eyes practically bulged out of her head. She stroked the soft, smooth silk beneath her hand. "Is there time?" she whispered. "I should call for my lady's maid to help me change."

"Please your Grace, allow me this privilege. The sanctity of your purification must not be rendered impure by the touch or words of lesser believers."

The now beautiful red haired head of the Queen nodded agreement. "I understand."

Melisandre helped the woman take off her stodgy gown and slide into the voluptuous garment gifted her. The priestess clasped all the hooks and tied all the bows for the coming offering.

"It's a bit short," Selyse commented.

Melisandre, aside from noting that Selyse's red gold choker lacking a fiery ruby, saw the priestess' identical twin standing in front of her.

Tap. Tap. A knock on the door. "Your Grace, all is in readiness. The believers await your and the Lady Melisandre's presence," Dragonstone's castellan announced.

Selyse's lips started to move.

The Red Priestess gently placed a finger over the Queen's mouth, shaking her head no. "Her Grace will be out in a moment. Let no one speak to either of us during the procession, Ser Axell," Melisandre commanded.

"Very well, my Lady," his dull voice answered.

She smiled at the image of herself. "Remember, your Grace, speak to no one until the fire of thanksgiving is lit. And let nothing unusual you see surprise you, such will only be the one true God gracing you with his visions."

Selyse drew herself up into her most regal bearing. "I am ready," she proclaimed.

"You are," Melisandre agreed with a smile. "You proceed first out of the room. I shall wait as R'hllor tells me and then I will follow behind you. In the heat of the fire, we shall sing together for Azor Ahai reborn." And with that the Red Priestess bowed low.

The Queen took that as her cue and left the room in perfect silence.

When the door shut, Melisandre moved with all deliberate speed. She threw off her silken gown of the Red Temple and struggled as quickly as she could into the Queen's discarded ensemble, all the while chanting in a low voice a very similar spell to the one she'd uttered earlier. It felt almost as if her skin tingled, bending light and shadows over it. She knew it nonsense, but she almost believed her ears truly grew.

KA-BOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!

A gigantic crash rocked the Great Hall. Shrieks filled the air.

The corners of a hairy looking upper lip lifted into a smile of satisfaction. R'hllor was great. R'hllor was merciful. Tonight the Lord of Light would bath the soul of a true believer, an innocent, in his love. And the Many Faced God would be denied the soul promised it. She continued robing, finding the Queen's clothes a bit long. She adjusted appropriately.

The sound of running feet came closer. "Your Grace!? Your Grace!?" voices shouted. Fists pounded insistently on the door.

"Enter," she calmly, regally commanded.

A guard commander, some distant cousin of the Bar Emmons, but more importantly one of the Queen's Men, a true believer, stepped in to the room, eyes wild with terror. "A disaster, your Grace. A tragedy. The Red God withdraws from us."

The homely, jug eared appearing woman in Selyse Bannister's dull garments stepped forward and slapped the man across his face. "Never," she blazed. "The One True God never deserts the faithful. Never! Now tell me what has happened!?" she demanded.

"'Tis, the Lady Melisandre, your Grace."

"What of her?" she asked sternly.

The man gulped. "A … a … a gargoyle fell of the middle wall." Ser Richard blinked back tears. "It … it crushed her, your Grace. Our Lady is gone," he moaned.

She slapped him again. "The Lady is never gone. She baths in the grace of the Lord Light. We must remember her. Cherish her. Live up to the memory of her beautiful soul. We must add a remembrance of her alongside our psalms of thanksgiving tonight."

The guard captain looked incredulous. "We … we …" he sputtered before regaining a modicum of control. "Who will lead the prayers?"

"I will," the woman in Selyse Baratheon's clothes declared without a shred of doubt in her soul. "There is much yet to do."


	2. Chapter 2

He dreamed of a vaulted stone ceiling poised atop soaring pillars and the smells of blood and shit and burnt flesh. Men groaned and whimpered and screamed out in pain all around him. Pale faced torturers wandered about the blood soaked marble floor in crimson stained white surgical garb jabbing torches into open wounds, cruelly cauterizing shredded, bleeding flesh. One of them peered down at him, two hauntingly familiar eyes looming like twin moons above the sanitary mask. "No, no, no. God no," he pleaded. A bright burning light descended upon him. He screamed again and again. His bowels failed him. The pain surged through him like a torrent as the room itself faded into oblivion; and, after a time, he realized he no longer dreamed.

Again he found himself in front of that yellow piss colored pub just outside the studio. Behind him a large crowd dressed in real clothes pressed against police tape under the watchful eye of a few blues; occasionally a sob or a moan of distress lifted above the general din of hushed chattering. A chill wind blew in off the Lough filling his nose with the scents of brine and exhaust; it felt good to be back in Belfast, at last out of George's rabbit hole and far, far away from the looking glass to mad Westeros. Yet he realized doubt and fear still clutched at his belly. Something wasn't right, he could sense it. The yellow stone house called to him, wanting to reveal its secret. He had to discover what.

He stepped forward to find a copper barring the door. "What's the problem, sergeant?" he asked respectfully.

The stone faced man didn't even blink.

"I was here last night. Maybe I could speak to someone, tell what I know?"

Still no response. Then a shout came from inside and the blue leaned over to unlatch the door.

He slid in through the archway, dodging a medical technician coming out. He wandered past the main bar, heading towards a back room where he heard voices coming from. His stomach tightened with each step. He went in anyway and found a half dozen more blues forming a haphazard wall that blocked his view. The odor from the lager stained floor couldn't hide the overwhelming stench of blood and shit and piss. After the Green Fork, those too familiar aromas bothered him less and less every day.

Flash bulbs suddenly blinked. Someone was taking photos just beyond the barrier of uniforms. For a moment he hesitated. 'Don't be a prat,' he told himself. 'Whatever it is, you've seen, hell, you've done worse.' He boldly stepped forward. "No," he whispered. Gorge caught in his throat. He saw his own unshaven face, separated by a distance of several meters from his slumped over body, staring up blindly into space.

* * *

><p>He awoke with a rasping, choking sound of horror to find himself in darkness. His heart thundered as his lungs panted. His right hand throbbed in a disjointed symphony of agony as hundreds of sharp needle jabbed a staccato rhythm into the tender flesh of his fingers and palm. At first he could see little, but after a time, through slits clenched in pain, a vague outline of a room appeared around him. Beneath him lay a pillow of softness, a real bed, not the sleeping hides of his tent. 'Cat!'<p>

He tried to move his head to spy for her and nearly found the effort too much. No, he was alone. He sank back exhausted in physical and mental anguish; alone and weak as a new born child. Where was he? How had he gotten here? What had happened to him? Where was his … family? Which family? He tried to remember. In fits and flashes his clunky movements in the Throne Room against the effortless art of the laughing golden man came back to him. No! He clenched his fists in rage and slowly, oh so slowly and with such struggle, lifted his right arm to confirm the truth. Yes, it was true. Tears burst forth. The bandages thickly swathed about its base could not hide the fact, that despite what his mind told him, he had no hand to clench.

He surrendered to tears, despair, and abject misery and slid willingly back into darkness.

* * *

><p>"<em>Tonight on BBC News a nation mourns. Sean Bean, star of film, television, and stage, is dead. His decapitated was body found this morning in a Belfast pub where…<em>"

"No, it's not me!" he yelled in a fury at the television screen.

"… _the actor had attended a production wrap party for his latest project, 'A Game of Thrones.'_"

"It's not me!" he repeated.

"_He leaves behind three daughters from previous marriages and his estranged wife, actress Georgina Sutcliffe. Born in Sheffield in 1959, Sean …_ "

Click.

"Oh how tragically lovely," the blonde holding the remote pronounced with a giggle.

"Bitch!" he snarled, turning to look at the pretty woman living in this expensive Chelsea flat that his hard earned brass had paid for.

The woman dropped the remote on the nearest chair and pulled out her mobile, finger rapidly pressing the first option on speed dial. "Henry, it's Georgina. Yes," she laughed. "Of course I've heard, I've got the news on now, haven't I? … Why do you think I'm calling?" The thirty two year old rolled her eyes.

"He's your bloody solicitor, isn't he? First person you call. Marvelous, just marvelous!" He walked right up to her and stared straight into her soulless eyes.

"He hadn't signed the paperwork over there and posted it to you, did he? … No? … Good, so much more rewarding to be a widow than an ex-wife.

"Despicable."

"Henry, check with his man Durnsley, be sure he didn't make any changes to the will. It would just be like the infuriating man to have made some sort of futile gesture. … I don't care if the court would invalidate it, I don't want the hassle, alright? Check on it."

"You greedy cunt."

"What now? … You think the press will ring? … Hmmmn. I suppose you're right. What do you think I should say? … Of course, obviously nothing too dramatic, the Beeb's already playing up our separation when they identify me as one of his survivors." Laughs. "Bloody nightmare that was."

"Laugh away, bitch. I've got a better woman than you'll ever dream to be."

"What? … Will I miss him? … Well, I suppose. We did have some good times together. More before we got married, not so much after. But now I won't miss his money, will I?" she chortled.

Patience gone, Sean Bean, star of film, television, and stage, punched his estranged wife Georgina in the face and watched the stump of his right hand pass clean through her skull.

* * *

><p>A bright band of sun light spilled through a large window splaying across his face. His mouth was parched. He felt warm. The blankets covering his body clung to him. A bead of sweat snaked over an brow and dropped across an eye lash. 'My hand,' he thought, vaguely remembering it was no longer where it was supposed to be. 'So tired.' He tried to lift the stump. He had to see what it looked like. Trapped beneath the covers it weighed a ton, he could barely move it. 'Tired.' He closed his eyes.<p>

…

When he opened them again, he swore he remembered a person standing over him. But he was alone again and the room now lay in mostly darkness. He started to shiver. It had been him; the flayer. His stomach churned. He noticed the stump, his phantom hand, they ached a bit less. The needles were only playing a jazz quartet on his tortured skin instead of an entire symphony. Still he shivered, the wound may have ached less but the rest of him hurt more. 'Fever,' he thought, noticing how the blankets still clung to him all shrouded in sweat.

Time passed. He had barely the strength to swallow, let alone whisper. Still no one came.

'Oh?' he thought dully, seeing that his gauze wrapped arm now lay atop the heavy covers. Slowly, so slowly, so very slowly he dragged the offending appendage closer. Peering intently he discovered the bandage loose at the very end. Something moved. Did it? His belly rumbled in distress. He sucked in his breath and lifted the stump up level with his eyes. Something did move. Then, an ugly bloated white thing wriggled through the untied blood and puss stained bandages to drop on his face. Horror welled up within him. Leeches were feeding on his body.

Sean vomited and passed out.

* * *

><p>"<em>Stars of theater and film are gathering here in Sheffield on this chilly night to pay tribute to one of the city's own, Sean Bean. Already an hour before the memorial service, its standing room only inside the Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul. Outside the church many fans of the actor are holding up 'Blades' banners in honor of the local football team's most famous patron. More on the cavalcade of stars here tonight from ...<em>"

"It's not me!" he shouted. "He's not '100% Blades'. Christ, would someone just check for my tattoos?!"

"Could you turn that off," the tired, despondent man asked.

"What? Is the radio bothering you or something?" the detective asked, turning the volume down to a whisper.

"He was my friend. I should be there, not here. I didn't kill him. Clint didn't kill him."

"Alright, then who did?"

"No one! That's Ned, that's not me! Joffrey killed him!"

"I don't know. I wish I knew. I'd tell you."

The detective looked skeptically at the stunt coordinator.

The tired man's eyes bulged out in frustration. "Would I have gifted Sean a set of armor on the night I intended to kill him?"

"So you're saying it wasn't premeditated?"

"No. I saying it wasn't any kind of meditated cause I didn't do it!"

The detective scratched the back of his head. "Funny gift that. Not many sets of real armor around outside of museums."

"No … yes … I mean … we all thought it was funny at the time."

"Funny, my arse!"

"How so?"

"Sean makes a lot of action movies with swords and stuff. He usually dies," the tired man said with a weak chuckle.

"God damn Internet!"

"So you thought it funny to give him only part of a set of armor? So you did want him to die then?"

"Hunh?"

"Hunh!?"

"We heard it was only a front plate and a back plate," the detective continued.

"So?"

"That wouldn't have done anything for a blow to his arms or legs would it?"

"Fucking right it didn't?" He held up his stump and shook it at the hollow eyed man sitting in the chair behind the interrogation desk. "Both you bastards said it would protect me! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!"

The tired man looked up, looked confused. "No," he answered at last with a sad shake of his head.

"And it certainly didn't stop his head from getting cut off, did it?"

The set's stunt coordinator didn't say a word, just sadly shook his head 'no' again.

"And then the armor up and disappeared. Very odd, Harry, very odd. It don't look so good for either you or your mate Clint. Why don't you take me back to the pub one more time, Harry, and tell me all you remember," the detective commanded.

* * *

><p>"Can we bag him now?"<p>

"What? Bag a celebrity murder before the Chief Constable shows up for a bit of press?" scoffed the Chief Inspector.

"Where's he been at?" a sergeant asked.

"Catching a flight back from Gatwick. Some chiefs conference or other with the Deputy Minister of State."

"Hey," a detective inspector interjected. "He's an actor. With the size of his head won't we need two bags?"

A gale of laughter met the plainclothes jape.

"Bloody bastards!" he barked, raging at the blues for making fun of both him and the body of not Sean lying on the floor of the pub.

"Winter is coming."

"What?!" he shouted, jumping at the unexpected whisper.

"Beware the Horn of Joramun"

"Shit," he snapped, realizing not Sean's mouth was murmuring those soft words.

"It sings a song of ice and fire."

"What?"

"Remember the seventy nine …"

"What?!"

"For there must always be a Stark in …"

"What!? WHAT!?"

* * *

><p>"What!? WHAT!?" Sean twisted and turned as he screamed his question. He felt an iron clad grasp holding him down.<p>

"Lord Stark, Lord Stark," the whispers continued.

"Stop it!" he screeched, kicking his legs against the heavy blankets weighing on him. "Stop saying those things!" Someone or something let go of his right arm. He jerked himself upright, inducing a moment of lightheadedness, but also flinging off the pillow that had half lain over his face. "Fuck!" he swore, as Roose Bolton's big milky eyes loomed large over him.

"Your fever has passed, Lord Stark," the Leech Lord said softly as he dropped an engorged albino leech into a small leather sack by his side. "And much has happened while you've lain ill." An almost knowing smile crossed the man's pale face. "All of which I think you will approve of."

The actor took a deep, steadying breath, trying to drive himself fully back into his mad role. "Thank you, Lord Roose. I take it your leeches were necessary for …" and as his words weakened and faded, he wobbled his stump in the air.

The quiet man bobbed his head silently.

"Where am I?" he wheezed, suddenly starting to feel tired as the adrenalin from his panic attack seeped out of him.

"The Maidenvault," Roose answered softly.

Not Ned nodded, immediately understanding the clever placing of his location; not in one power position or the other, but between the two. "Then who is in the Tower of the Hand?"

"His Grace has not yet chosen a Hand. He has indicated to the court he is waiting your recovery so he may have your counsel before he decides," came the whispered response.

'Gracious of the prickly bastard,' he thought, before more urgent, more personal considerations flooded his weary body. "My family?"

Roose Bolton stood up to depart. "I will get Lady Stark for you, Lord Stark. But, if I may, a question first?'

'Anything to get rid of you, you cold hearted leech loving bastard.' "Please," he prompted.

"Who are Gyorge and Gyorgina? In your fever, you seemed quite wroth at them."


	3. Chapter 3

**Robb (I)**

He bounded out the tall curved main doors of the Maidenvault to greet Grey Wind, who immediately started nipping happily at his heels, sharing playfully in his ebullient mood; father would live. Their conversation had been brief, lasting mere minutes until the exhausted, pale, rapidly greying man had fallen asleep, head nestled lovingly in mother's lap. A bit of Robb felt sad that the great warrior lord of his childhood was now gone forever thanks to the Kingslayer's near deadly blow, but as he'd begun to realize in his short stint as the King of the North and even more particularly the last ten days acting as the Stark of Winterfell to the banners of the North, there was much more to being a great lord than simply fighting. A lord must rule justly, evenly, strongly, yet keep his banners at least moderately happy with the strong hand holding their obedience; not an easy task for a young lord, nor even a King he'd noticed. To many of the gathered lords, with the capture of the Red Keep and arrest of the False King, the war was won and the time had come for the new Grace to bestow gifts upon those who'd supported his ascension to the Iron Throne. But another powerful claimant still remained, the King's own brother, the reckless Lord Renly; and beyond that Robb knew of other, much darker threats awaiting the North: the Ironborn, Wildlings, Others, and Dragons his father had warned him and his mother of.

Beside him, quickly cuing into the sudden downturn in his mood, his four legged brother stopped acting the frisky overgrown and became again the deadly guard of his every waking and sleeping moment. From the first, standing knee deep in the late winter snows with the blind ball of grey-black fur clutched tight in his arms, he'd believed he'd found an unknown missing part of himself. "_Put away your sword, Greyjoy. We will keep these pups_," he had commanded that cold day as grown men stood in fear of his House's sigil made living flesh. And the bond had only grown as the direwolf had sprouted from a cute bone gumming puppy to a pony sized killing machine. His father's revelation that he and his siblings might all be wargs with their chosen litter mates had offended his southern born mother's Seven given sensibilities, but it hadn't startled Robb, not truly. The connection he felt with the beast trotting at his side had somehow always resonated with his icy northern soul; and then that scary night in the Throne Room, the pieces of the puzzle called Grey Wind had all seemingly slid together for him.

* * *

><p>"<em>AAAAAAAAHHHHHGGGGGGGGG!" father screamed, horribly maimed; his hand lying bloody on the flagstone floor.<em>

"_Die Stark!" Lannister roared._

"_Nooooooooo!" Robb couldn't lose his father again! Pain and rage surged through him, too far away to help._

_Father stumbled backward as the Kingslayer swooped in blindingly fast again with the stolen Ice, this time the Valyrian greatsword bouncing off the side of his unadorned plate; the force of the blow dropping him to the ground._

'_There!' In the vast, poorly lit hall, yellow eyes gleamed through smoke grey fur not far from his fallen parent. 'Go!' he begged. And then the world tilted. The salty, iron laden scent of luscious blood swamped his nostrils, threatening to drown his senses. The room suddenly grew brighter, and then he realized he was looking through it with a second pair of eyes. 'Grey Wind, go!' he commanded._

_A familiar grudging howl pierced and echoed through his ears. He did not like the eldritch figure writhing on the ground. It did not smell 'natural.' It had the soft furless skin of his brother's pack but was no longer of that pack, or any pack. He resisted aiding 'that.'_

'_Go!'_

_Something demanding, unrelenting, drove into his thoughts. He fought the urge, but it was too insistent. It must be obeyed. His haunches tensed and then he leapt, carrying himself over the fallen, distasteful body. A grey metal death stick swooped in front of him, held by a golden two leg wrapped in a white cloud. He dodged left. The grey death followed. He circled left more, quickly, neck occasionally snatching out, fangs bared. The grey death reached again and again. He felt a prick in his fur. His rage soared, but he kept circling, lower, lower … the long grey death following, lower, lower, lower. He sprung._

"_Die Lannister!" Robb roared. The sweet taste of blood spurted in his mouth. _

_The golden man's arms jerked. His whole body jerked and then toppled over._

_Grey Wind kept his jaws latched tight, razor sharp canines buried deep in the fleshy neck. The urge began to diminish, the iron will leashed to him relaxed. He felt his two leg brother's satisfaction. He yanked up his snout, rending the weak furless skin of the golden one. Fresh savory blood gushed onto his muzzle. He licked at it._

_And then through his own eyes Robb saw a horrific, scarred figure charge straight at him. "Clegane," he muttered, lifting his sword up to receive the brute's powerful charge. And with that all his limited, human senses returned to him, the world no longer a menagerie of scents and sounds and tastes and sights. He met the blow, the force of it nearly knocking the sword out of his hand. Holding on for dear life he counter swung._

_The Hound laughed, stepped inside the arc of the blade, and leveled a shoulder._

_Robb staggered backward._

_Clegane came relentlessly forward._

_He swung low wildly._

_The Hound hopped over the blade and lashed out with a boot, soundly catching a shin guard._

_Overhead a thick, heavy blade came whirling down. Robb turned his body sideways, but the sword still caught the edge of his shoulder, chain links sparked and shattered. His whole shield arm felt numb, but he spun his body out of the way regardless the beating pain. He whipped his sword around weakly._

_The Hound slapped the feeble blow aside with a gauntleted hand and laughed._

_Suddenly others in grey, Winterfell grey, surged up around Robb, interposing themselves between their young lord and his foeman. His body practically sobbed as he gulped in huge breaths of air. Then he watched Quent fall, a huge gash opening bone deep in his thigh._

"_Coming for you boy!" the Hound screamed._

"_Dog!" Black Walder shouted, happily joining the fray, driving the burned face monster back several steps with cold efficient strikes._

_Then Robb finally noticed men shouting, "The Kingslayer's dead!" "The Kingslayer's dead!" He licked his lips, remembering the taste of fresh blood. 'Of course he's dead, I killed him,' he thought leadenly._

_Then cries of "Yield!" began echoing across the Throne Room as the fight left the red cloaks' spirits, until only the tink of one last resisting blade filled the hall._

"_In the name of your King, I order you to yield, Clegane!" bellowed Stannis Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Conqueror of the Iron Throne._

"_Bugger," the Hound spat, but he did at last drop his sword._

_The loud clang of the falling steel hitting stone seemed to wake Robb from the daze of pain he found himself in. "Father!" the youth cried as he ran over to where Roose Bolton now knelt beside his fallen lord._

* * *

><p>"You're late, Lord Robb," Stannis grunted, from his seat at the middle of the Small Council's table.<p>

"My Lord Father has awakened at last, your Grace," he eagerly replied in answer, a wide happy smile splitting his lips.

"Yes, so I've already heard," the King grumbled while inclining his head towards the pale faced figure also already ensconced at the table. "And though we rejoice with you," he said begrudgingly, "you are still late, Lord Robb. Now take your place," he commanded.

Robb bit his lip in frustration yet nodded in silent acknowledgement. 'Bloody arse,' he thought, though not sure whether he meant the King or Lord of the Dreadfort. 'Arses,' plural he decided, both had spoiled the joy of his announcement. Despite the 'sin' of tardiness, Stannis Baratheon had at least kept Robb and Grey Winds usual place at his right hand open for them. And Uncle Edmure sat in his seemingly customary spot by his Grace's left hand.

The pair, thanks to their paramount status amongst all the lords gathered in King's Landing, had attended every one of the King's ad hoc small council meetings. Lord Roose and great uncle Brynden, also in attendance today, were called to appear more often than not; his Grace apparently appreciating their quiet, well thought counsel more than that of say the Greatjon, who'd been summoned once and then never asked again to return. The King's own low born onion knight oft attended too, though he seemed in absence today; the smuggler spoke seldom, but Robb noted with blunt truth when he did. The others currently gathered were honest Halys Hornwood, bluff Tytos Blackwood, the pretty blonde Lord Velaryon, with more than a trace of Targaryen blood in his family's tree, and the grasping old Lord Ardrian Celtigar of Claw Island, a natural fit for Master of Coins by Robb's reckoning. But his Grace had yet to see fit to permanently name his small council. The young man thought that wise, first see who is competent at what and then assign tasks as talents and loyalties warranted. Not every problem was a nail in search of a hammer. He sat down and waited to hear how many of today's litany of woes would require only some easy pounding to resolve.

The King cleared his throat. "I have missed your lord father's honest counsel this past week, Lord Robb. On the morrow, if the Lord of Winterfell is well enough to receive my visit, send your Ser Olyvar to find me and I shall make the time to come pay my respects." Stannis Baratheon frowned, then added, "Only briefly, mind, I've no intention to interrupt the quiet of his mending with pointless chatter."

"Yes, your Grace," Robb answered. "And may I apologize beforehand for my lady mother."

The King's eyes narrowed and his eyebrows rose suspiciously. "Whatever for?"

Robb grinned, "For the rude words she will undoubtedly place at your feet, your Grace, the very moment she sees my lord father tire and blames you for overstaying your welcome."

Uncles Edmure and Brynden chuckled in well remembered appreciation of his mother's well hidden ferocious streak.

The King snorted. "I see your lord father has his own wolf of sorts guarding him, though a fishy one. I shall respect her bark."

Now it was Robb's turn to blink in surprise. 'A jape? From him?' he wondered in amazement.

"Ser Brynden, is there any change in Queen Cersei's position?" the King inquired.

"Still baring her declawed paws over her cubs?" Lord Celtigar near cackled.

"I'm afraid not, your Grace," the Blackfish answered. It has been thought that having a more fatherly figure bargain with the Whore Queen in her Black Cell might make acquiring the confession of her incestuous adultery easier; no such luck. "She still insists that in exchange for her admission that Joffrey must be allowed to take the black."

Robb heard the King grind his teeth in frustration. "No. As I do not blame Tommen or Myrcella Rivers for the stain of their birth, they at least did not have the audacity to sit their tainted blood upon the Iron Throne and proclaim themselves King. The boy's life is forfeit, as is his mothers. Only the timing and nature of their deaths is yet undecided."

"Perhaps, your Grace, it is time the Whore Queen knew that her continuing farce places her younger children's lives in danger too," the Lord of the Driftmark suggested with a vicious grin.

Stannis Baratheon frowned. "Cersei Lannister never accepted coin for her loose favors as far as I know, Lord Monford. You will refrain from calling my brother's wife a whore," the King chastised.

"Was she King Robert's wife, your Grace?" Lord Roose asked softly.

"Of course she was," the King snapped. "I was there when the High Septon proclaimed them man and wife in the Great Sept and Robert exchanged her red Lannister cloak for the golden one of my house.

A faint smile slipped on to the man's pale face. "But with her maidenhead having already been taken by her brother before the wedding, the marital contract was broken; no marriage occurred, only deception."

The King chewed his lower lip a moment and then shook his head. "Robert never complained of their bedding that I knew of, but by how much he drank, I doubt he would have even noticed," he said scornfully. "No, without her admitting so, which she won't, there is no recourse here, Lord Roose; as clever of an idea as it was."

"Witnesses could be found; and made to talk," Lord Bolton said coldly, no doubt as to what he meant.

His Grace shook his head no more emphatically. "Too long a wait. And would a Council of the Faith so readily agree with forced testimony? The gold of Casterly Rock might still find secret friends among the not so Most Devout. No, Lord Monford's suggestion holds more promise of yielding fast results. Ser Brynden, when you next speak to the Queen, you will threaten her with her younger children's lives."

Robb saw the Blackfish's face set into an obstinate, unhappy look.

"Threaten only, your Grace," Ser Brynden responded more as pointed opposition than as agreement.

"I will do what I must to have her confession in open court, Ser," the King growled. "By her words the whole of the Seven Kingdoms must know that I am Robert's true heir and the rightful King. Renly seduced his allies with the charm I lack. If I am to sway my rightful banners back to me, I must have the cold harsh truth to throw in their faces; else they might never wake up from the folly of my brother's treacherous dream."

"Perhaps it is time for another emissary to Queen Cersei," old Lord Ardrian proposed.

All the faces but one at the table turned in near unison to look at their palest member.

"My reputation is well known in the North, your Grace," Lord Roose announced softly. "But I fear the Queen may not be sufficiently aware of it. Do I have your permission to present the very exacting reality of her predicament to her?"

"Do what is necessary, Lord Roose; so long as she remains presentable and capable of making believable confession in my court," the King commanded.

The Lord of the Dreadfort's wan lips twisted slightly into the slightest of smiles.

Robb's stomach twisted as his imagination began producing horrific suggestions in his mind.

"Then if I have your leave, your Grace, might I get started?" Lord Roose asked quietly.

Stannis Baratheon waved a hand towards the door of the Small Council's chamber, giving the Lord of the Dreadfort his leave.

* * *

><p>"And what of the Lady Lysa, Ser?" the flinty man drove relentlessly on at the Blackfish, the council now entering a second excruciating hour.<p>

Robb shifted in his seat, no longer trying to not look bored; the debts of the crown weren't his concern and by what he had followed he was exceedingly glad they weren't, seeing how mucked up they were even with the half owed to Casterly Rock being forgiven contingent on limp Lancel Lannister's ascension to the paramount lordship of the Westerlands. Such matters little,' he thought unconcernedly as he tried to focus again on the important parts of ruling, ''tis only gold and silver after all, not the might of steel nor the strength of arms that swing it.'

"It is too soon for a raven to have returned from the Eyrie. Will she abide my command and bring herself and the knights of the Vale to my aide?"

Robb and Uncle Edmure joined the Blackfish in shaking their heads in the negative.

"I left her service for my lady niece Catelyn, your Grace, because it was obvious to all but the pack of dogs circling her in hopes of her hand that she's quite mad with paranoia for the safety of her son Robert. She'll only climb down from the shelter of her high perch when winter begins to set in I'm afraid," Ser Brynden announced.

"She never once replied to the many ravens I sent her from Riverrun, your Grace," Robb added.

"Yes," the King choked out through clenched teeth, having been reminded of his young lord's brief stint as the 'King in the North.' "So which course is more likely to draw their sword arms to our sides, proclaim the boy a bastard and this Harrold Hardyng Jon Arryn's true heir or send ravens to all the major lords of the vale commanding their presence in King's Landing?"

"The memory of Jon Arryn is much loved in the Vale, your Grace," the Blackfish cautioned.

"Of course it is. Jon Arryn was a far better man than most, none could say otherwise." The balding Stag pursed his lips. "So without great proof only the graspers and climbers might believe such a tale; and only if they saw how it would benefit them in doing so," the King concluded, unimpressed with human nature.

'Yes, your Grace," Uncle Brynden agreed bluntly.

The King rubbed his close cropped beard for a moment. "Now your lord father knew of Lady Lysa's adultery with that wretched little whoremonger of a lordling and how they poisoned Lord Arryn," he suddenly spat, clearly addressing the youngest lord present. "Did he ever say whether her son was Baelish's?" the contempt as he pronounced Littlefinger's last name palpable.

"I do not believe he was sure either way, your Grace," Robb answered truthfully. "He suspected the possibility, but the Old Gods' never directly showed him."

"That is the problem with most visions," the King proclaimed. "Seldom do they give simple yes or no answers. Everything must be interpreted and then reinterpreted to conveniently fit circumstances," he said with evident sarcasm. "T'would be the smoky word of a prophet against the appearance of an innocent child."

"So Ser Brynden, which lords of the Vale would come join us in our fight when his Grace commands it of them?" Lord Monford Velaryon demanded to know.

"Very few, if his Grace rudely couches his request as a blunt command; the knights of the Vale are as prickly about their pride as they are of doing their sworn duty. His Grace sits the Iron Throne as King, but few from the Vale know him and none have yet sworn their personal oath to him; a tricky situation, but manageable. The Baratheon name is still remembered fondly in many parts."

"So I must await Cersei acknowledging the irrevocable stain on her children and then play up the memory of my beloved brother Robert to them," the King said bitterly.

"Yes, your Grace," Ser Brynden agreed. "And for some a separate message from myself or Lord Stark will stir fond memories to your aid."

"Yes, I'm sure all will remember no more charming pair of young squires at Jon Arryn's side than Robert and his brother in all but name. Still, Ser Brynden make a list of which lords would be worth our while to contact. For now, I call our council to an end. There are other lords hovering about the Red Keep worse than vultures that I must show myself to so they may someday remember my charms and amusing quips."

All except Grey Wind rose as the King stood up and left.

"How many do you suppose might come, Ser Brynden?" Lord Tytos inquired.

"None of the … vultures," and the Blackfish smiled as he said that word, finding it amusingly appropriate, "trying to peck a wedding proposal out of my niece's warped mind. So that's near half right there."

"They'll have to come by boat with Autumn here," Edmure added.

"Aye, the High Road will be snowed in to the Bloody Gate soon enough," Ser Brynden agreed.

"And Autumn storms will make even the sea ways from Gulltown to Blackwater Bay treacherous," Lord Monford pointed out.

"So Yohn Royce?" old Lord Celtigar hedged.

The Blackfish nodded. "Mayhap the Melcolms from Old Anchor and the Hunters of Longbow Hall."

"I think some Stark blood runs in the Templetons," Robb observed.

"Ser Symond could bring near a thousand from Ninestar if he chose to come. And the Corbray's might have a touch of your blood too, Lord Robb," Uncle Brynden said. "Ser Lyn always liked a good fight; though his older brother Lord Lyonel is more cautious and apt to do the opposite of Ser Lyn."

"Isn't Harrold Hardyng Lady Waynewood's ward?" Uncle Edmure asked. "Maybe the right word in her ear could …?"

"No, likely not, her eldest son Morton was one of the vultures strutting around your sister."

"So how many does that leave us with?" Robb asked despondently.

"Five thousand at best, I suspect."

"Not nearly enough," harrumphed old Lord Celtigar, thinking on the vast host that Renly was reputed to have collected.

Uncle Brynden clapped Robb encouragingly on the shoulder. "T'would be five thousand more than we have now. And the right five thousand can work miracles can't it? You proved that at Riverrun, didn't you?"

Robb smiled at the compliment; though of course Uncle Brynden had been right there alongside him in the thick of it, not like this joyless, ungiving King they'd made. He decided he needed a little joy.

Grey Wind at last stood up and stretched; mouth stretching, tongue lolling out the side.

Yes, dimly Robb could feel a hunger growing in his direwolf's belly that matched his own. It was time to pick up Roslin from the Maidenvault and have a mini-feast under the branches of the Godswood. With him to make sure Grey Wind kept a watchful eye, maybe he'd get the chance to make their child beneath the setting sun. He then wondered if his four legged brother would ever get the urge to make pups.


	4. Chapter 4

**Roose (I)**

The Lord of the Dreadfort and his minions strode purposefully down the circular staircase bound for the third level, ominously named 'the Black Cells.' Like any skilled craftsman he appreciated the benefits of a useful reputation, so the lord sporting the badge of a red flayed man on his black tunic took careful note of his surroundings as his party trudged deeper and deeper underground. Was the smell of rancid food, shit, piss, and vomit worsening? Were the rats scurrying through the rushes to their bolt holes of an unusually ferocious size? Did the malevolent aura of snarks or the agonizing shrieks of torture fill the air? No, this dungeon was like any other. Roose Bolton was so far not overly impressed.

"Here, milord," the turnkey guiding them announced, having stopped on a wide landing in front of a thick, iron reinforced oak door."

"Knock," Roose commanded and watched the dullard's face blink in surprise. He suspected this simpleton was a lackey left over from the now headless, and still tongueless, Ser Ilyn Payne's reign as the King's Executioner. He supposed someone had to be kept on who might readily know which key opened which cell and whom all the old prisoners were.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Clang. The narrow steel shutter to the door clanked open revealing blood shot black eyes and a hairy brown face. "Who goes there?" a voice growled in challenge.

"Lord Bolton, by command of the King," Steelshanks announced.

The shutter slammed shut and muted voices could just be heard through it.

Clang. The shutter snapped open again; now a clean shaven face appeared. "Ahhh, Lord Bolton. Ser Edwell Waters at your service. Would you please step a bit closer, my lord?"

'Of course in the South only a bastard hedge knight is willing to lower himself to act as an undergaoler, even for a King,' Roose thought snidely while honoring the man's request and stepping closer to the door; one of his men smartly followed right behind him with a torch held high to illuminate his pale features and coal black hair. 'I shall be pleasantly surprised to find the adulteress and her eldest sprog still imprisoned.'

The knight dipped his head once. "My thanks, my lord. Now how may I aid you?"

'Well that's an encouraging sign, he didn't just open the door upon recognizing me.' "His Grace has chosen me to replace Ser Brynden at garnering the prisoners' cooperation," he stated softly.

Clang. Creak. The door swung open.

Roose approved of squeaky doors in a dungeon. They let guards know that someone was either coming or going.

Inside he could see a half dozen men standing at attention, hands judiciously resting on swords, axes, and crossbows. He approved of alert guards even more.

Slowly he stepped through the doorway, letting himself survey the room quickly: no hidden blades; a heavily scarred table holding several bottles, mugs, a few unfinished scraps of food, cards, dice, and coins; a dozen stools, two thick doors blocked by ironbars from the inside, and one simple wood door. He pointed at the simple door and his torch bearer walked over to it and pushed it open with a toe.

"The necessary," the man announced.

The Lord of the Dreadfort turned to look at one of his two men carrying heavy rucksacks over their shoulders and gestured to the table.

"It'll do, milord," that one said with a grin and then swung the sack around so he could start pulling rope out of it.

Roose raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"'Tis delicate work, milord," the grinning man declared. "Wouldn't want any slip ups."

"My lord?" the hedge knight asked uncertainly.

"While I talk to the mother, the boy will be brought out here. You will not interfere. Do you understand, Ser Edwell?" he whispered.

The 'Black Cells' undergaoler licked his lips nervously. "T'wont be nothing … serious … done to the boy, will there be, my lord?"

The grinning man pulled a butcher's apron and several small flaying nights out of his rucksack.

"No," the Lord of the Dreadfort answered quietly. "Not serious. His Grace shall have no cause to question your wardship of his prisoners." He extended a forefinger and wiggled it between the two interior strong doors. "Which?"

The hedge knight pointed to his left. "This way, my lord." And walked over to it, slid back the shutter, and announced, "The Lord Bolton to see the prisoners."

A voice on the other side muttered something and then the sound of shifting metal squealed loud enough to almost drown out a shout of, "Visitors!"

"A moment, Ser Edwell," Roose said softly. "Is there a small table for my men to take with me to the cell?"

A surprised look crossed the undergaoler's clean shaven face. "Just inside the entrance to the corridor, my lord; for the guard to use or the turnkey to set the day's bucket of victuals on."

The Lord of the Dreadfort smiled and fluttered his fingers for the man to proceed ahead. "Bring a stool," he whispered to his party.

The hedge knight lifted the iron pole barring the door and it swung open with a pleasing squeak to reveal another guard, holding a crossbow at the ready.

The hedge knight stepped through first and Roose followed him into the poorly lit passage; then all but his henchmen concerned with draping the ropes over the guardroom's table trailed their liege lord, one of them toting a stool. There was a small table and stool by the door for the guard to rest on. At the far end of the dim corridor he spied another alert crossbowman. "Bring those," he murmured.

As he shadowed the undergaoler the Lord of the Dreadfort pondered if he should discover who owned this hedge knight's nominal allegiance; if they could fight a lick, trained men such as these were valuable.

"Here, my lord," Ser Waters announced, stopping in front of a solid oak door and pulling out a loop containing a bunch of keys from inside his less than richly tunic. Click. The door unlocked.

"First the key for the other cell. Then you and all your men may return to the guardroom, Ser," he informed the hedge knight, dismissing him. Roose accepted the formed slip of iron and then waited silently at the unlocked, but still closed door.

"Who goes there?" a woman's haughty voice asked after a moment.

He smiled; the game beginning. Roose looked down at the well manicured fingers of his right hand, checking for any grime beneath the nails.

"Tell me!" Cersei Lannister demanded. "Who's there!?"

He sighed imperceptibly.

"Who?"

The Lord of the Dreadfort noticed the tiniest of quivers in the disgraced Queen's tone.

"Now, with vigor," he whispered.

Smack!

Steelshank Walton's greaves covering one long leg caught the flickering torch light as his foot lashed out to smash the door. It flung inward and cracked against a wall.

Cersei shrieked briefly, then recovered herself as Lord Bolton's lieutenant strode menacingly into the 'Black Cell.'

He snapped his clean fingers. His minion with the torch entered next. He noticed the dirty prisoner flinch from the light and try to shade her eyes behind an upraised, well formed hand.

"Mother!" a muffled voice from down the hall cried out. "What is it!?"

Roose shook his head in disgust. 'No wonder the Blackfish couldn't accomplish anything, keeping them together,' he thought.

"Table and chairs," he whispered.

In went two stools and the small guard's stand. The two burly men-at-arms dropped them in the middle of the smallish room, forcing the Queen back towards the rear wall where he foot knocked into her slop bucket; then the pair stepped to the sides of the cell, joining their compatriots in posing with silent menace.

The stifled shouts of "Mother!" annoyingly continued in the background.

"Fetch the boy," he commanded softly and then he stepped into the cell. "The next your Grace will see Ser Brynden is when you proclaim the sins of your children's births in front of King Stannis' court."

"Not likely," she snarled.

"Until then, you will talk only to me, Lord Bolton." He noted that her eyes, quite pretty green eyes in fact, narrowed a bit, perhaps in recognition, at the announcement of his name. Did her slender, shapely form shiver ever so slightly too? His pale lips smiled. He lowered himself on to the nearer stool. "Sit," he said pleasantly.

Heat started to alight in her high cheekbone.

'Tsk, tsk,' Roose thought, watching the ill humors unwisely take control of the otherwise strikingly beautiful woman. He instantly decided the blossoming red in her complexion did not well match the particular tint of her golden blonde hair.

"No," she replied with cold fury. "Never with the likes of you."

"Steelshanks," he commanded softly.

Instantly his brutally efficient deputy took a step forward and walloped the Queen across the face with an open hand, leaving the pale imprint of fingers in her hot cheeks.

"Ahgg," she gasped.

"Again," the Lord of the Dreadfort commanded.

The back of his man's hand swung back striking her other cheek, snapping her head to the side; mucus spurted out her delightfully slender and lightly freckled nose.

"And the dress."

Riiiiiiip!

Her teats, as lovely as the rest of her, spilled into view. The Queen gasped in utter astonishment. Her brilliant green eyes bugged out her face.

The smile never left the pale man's face. "Sit," he insisted quietly. "I've brought dinner. Fresh baked bread, capons, and a rather sour red I'm afraid to say."

Shock, hate, self-preservation, and a litany of other emotions all raged across the dispossessed Queen's face at once.

Roose saw the merest speck of guile peek out of the emerald windows into her dirty soul; self-preservation had won. He almost wanted to laugh at the beautiful, pathetic figure in front of him.

Cersei stepped forward, lowering her grimy, willowy hands to the torn upper half of her dress. She started tugging at it, trying to fit the torn pieces over her nakedness as she at last sat on the open stool.

He enjoyed the sight of her struggling to cover her full, ever so slightly sagging breasts. His leech stirred and fattened. He wagged a disapproving finger at her. "No, no. I prefer you as you are."

Her hands hesitated for a moment; she dropped them. Then the Queen smiled and straightened her back, thrusting her lovely fleshy orbs provocatively forward. A wicked little smile turning the edges of her full, ruby lips.

"Mother!" the startled adolescent voice cried, breaking .

"Joffrey!" she answered. Concern instantly swept the smug look off her face. She went to stand up.

Steelshanks boot caught her and she tumbled, breasts jiggling, into the filthy rushes strewn across the cell's floor.

"Mother!"

Smack!

"Ouch," the boy yelled.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"Ahhhh," the boy whined in near tears.

"Please stop," the Queen's voice begged with husky emotion from down in the muck.

Roose held up a finger. Instantly the abuse of the boy stopped. "Your bastard will not be joining our repast," he announced softly. "Take him to the guardsroom."

"Mooooootheeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr!" Joffrey Waters wailed as he was dragged away.

He gestured with an open palm at the free stool. "Please, I couldn't possibly eat by myself. And I've brought you a gift," he said.

Fear and hate once again shone in her eyes as they flitted back and forth from the doorway to the pale man's face. Having decided her course, she slowly climbed out of the filth and resumed her seat. Instinctively her hands groped for the torn clothing again.

Roose simply frowned and shook his head.

She stopped fidgeting.

The Lord of the Dreadfort smiled once more and snapped his fingers.

The man carrying a rucksack opened it and started pulling things out: plates, cutlery, goblets, a bottle, bread. Soon a capon was deposited on each of their plates and a thin looking red was poured.

Roose took a sip and made a small face. "Fare not fit for Maegor's Holdfast, I'm sure. But I hope you find it more enjoyable that your usual meals this past ten days, your Grace." He leaned forward and began cutting into his poultry.

The Queen paused, but not for long; the aroma overwhelmed her control over her stomach. She dug in with gusto.

As the noise of her slurping and chewing increased, Roose slowed his own pace, waiting for his next cue.

"No! No you can't!" the bastard's muted voice slipped down the corridor and into the cell.

Cersei Lannister's hand stopped in midair, fork trembling slightly.

The Lord of the Dreadfort gave an exaggerated sigh. "Perhaps some music?" he suggested.

The last man of his party slipped the strap over his shoulder and brought the object on his back around into his hands; revealing a lute. The bard smiled and strummed a few chords.

A frown began to form at the corners of Cersei's luscious, blood engorged lips.

The singer started to warble:

"_And who are you, the proud lord said, _

_that I must bow so low? _

_Only a cat of a different coat,"_

The Queen stabbed her fork angrily into her plate, breaking the cheap clay fired plate.

"Is the music not to your liking" Roose asked innocently.

"_In a coat of gold or a coat of red, _

_a lion still has claws,"_

"How dare you," she hissed, an ugly look marring the splendor of her dirt smudged face.

"_as long and sharp as yours. _

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke, _

_that lord of Castamere,"_

The Lord of the Dreadfort let any pretense at pleasantness fall from his face; revealing his natural bloodless, heartless countenance. He leaned forward. Slap! His pale hand left a pale imprint as Cersei Lannister tumbled arse over tits back into the muck. Quite a fuckable arse the pale man thought, spurred on by the expanding leech in his trousers,

"_But now the rains weep o'er his hall, _

_with no one there to hear. _

_Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall, _

_and not a soul to hear."_

Roose held up a hand and the singer stopped. He stood up, so the Queen could clearly see him from where she'd fallen. "The winner never dares. He simply does as he chooses to the weak."

A petrified, pained "AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" pounded through the Black Cells.

"Joffrey," the mother whispered mournfully, naming her eldest bastard; the undoubted source of the tortured cry.

"Time for your present, your Grace," the pale man announced coldly.

His men swept the meal off the table into the rushes. The man with the rucksack pulled out one last item, an unadorned reasonably large box, and set it on the cleared table. Steelshanks stepped up, unsnapped the brass clasp, and raised the lid. A foul stench immediately filled the room. Without flinching the lieutenant reached in and pulled out a flesh eaten skull. Only a few sparse red hairs clung to the bits of skin left at the edges of the scalp. The eyes were gone and a partially eaten nose sat above teeth gleaming through absent lips. Despite the physical abuse and decomposition the head has suffered, the regal features of the man were still quite discernable.

"A kiss for your father?" Roose asked evilly.

The bird, bread, and wine Cersei had consumed came retching up out of her belly, spewing through her lips, and spraying onto her bare breasts and arms.

The pale man stepped around the table to the Queen's hunched over body and grabbed her thick golden blonde hair forcefully. He brutally jerked her head towards the skull, pulling her a few feet through the filthy rushes. "A kiss? Or an apology? Do you see what your stupid selfishness has done? Westeros broken from the Reach to the Neck. Chaos spread across the lands. And your own father and brother dead. All because of you." He kicked her belly hard. "You and your need to have your brother's seed filling your grasping cunt and greedy belly."

"Noooooooo," she moaned.

"Oh yes," he hissed softly. "You've doomed yourself. Doomed your bastard Joffrey." He jerked the twisted hair on her head hard again, dragging her right up to the table on which the still recognizable head of Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, the Shield of Lannisport, the Warden of the West, and once Hand of the King rested. "Will you force Stannis Baratheon to extinguish the entire Lannister family root and branch? Will you force the King to also take the heads of your sweet Tommen and brave Myrcella? Is your selfish pride greater than the needs of the Seven Kingdom?"

"I'm supposed to be Queen," she wailed.

Roose tugged her again, shoving her nose into her father's putrid cheek. "Kiss him. Explain it to him."

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no." she chanted, whether in shock or denial or both.

"Milord?" a voice called.

Roose looked up. A naked, whimpering Joffrey stood supported by strong arms in the doorway to the cell, blood smeared all around his groin.

"Mother," he sniveled.

"What, what did you … do to him," she sobbed.

Roose smiled, "We all heard from the Lady Sansa how her honorable betrothed reluctantly spared her the pleasure of taking her maidenhood. His death will remove any chance of their joyous bedding. In case the Lady Sansa decides she had regrets in missing such a delight, I am to present her with the boy's foreskin. If you delay your decision much longer, your Grace, I'll gift her his whole cock, puny as it is," he sneered.

"Bastard," she wept.

The Lord of the Dreadfort shook her head fiercely, neck near snapping. "No, I believe he is. You know what you must say. Much longer in doing so and I will start harvesting a multitude of gifts from the rest of your incestuous flock for the Lady Sansa." He at last let go off her greasy yet still aluring hair and walked over to the door. "Let the boy greet his only blood grandfather."

His men shoved the slight, nude, bloody, blond youth. He crashed into the table, knocking Tywin Lannister's skull ingloriously to the floor. Perhaps later the rats would make themselves a snack of the dead lion.

"Leave the torch in the bracket and come," he commanded his men.

They quickly passed by their lord.

"You've lost utterly, your Grace. It's now only just a question of whether you let it rain on all your family." And with those words he shut the door on the Black Cell.

* * *

><p>The walk from the Dungeon to his house's temporary accommodations in the White Sword Tower was not long enough or vigorous enough to cool the ardor of the humors that had arisen within him at the sight of the naked, beautiful, humiliated, and completely dejected Queen. Only a thorough leeching would dull the mind numbing heat raging within.<p>

His page stood patiently at his post just inside the tower's entrance, in the Kingsguard's whitewashed 'Round Room.'

"Elmar, my leeches," he commanded brusquely. Then he quickly passed the large white weirwood table that dominated the room and ascended the three flights of stairs to the top floor. The Lord Commander's designated room was furnished sparely, but encompassed the whole space, unlike his brethren's smaller cell sized spaces below. Once within he quickly stripped off his clothes and lay down upon his bed, urgent for his cack-thumbed, leech fearing page to appear and do his duty.

He wished for a more competent page, but before he'd even left the Twins almost three months ago plans within plans had been spinning in his mind, so liking the possibilities he'd asked for conniving Walder's youngest son as his page. The squeamish youth was a constant source of disappointment. He'd almost released the lad when his negotiations with Ser Stevron for a Frey marital contract reached an apparent impasse. And then eerily, but not unsurprisingly considering the source, 'Blessed Ned' unprompted had suggested his banner ask for a bride's weight in silver as the dowry from the Lord of the Twins. And now 'Fat' Walda Frey, daughter of Merrett Frey, once a squire alongside the Kingslayer himself for Lord Crakehall, and granddaughter of old Walder himself was his betrothed and currently in route with an escort on the kingsroad to marry him. He wondered what bedding this butterball would be like.

The idea of spending himself suddenly brought leech enlarging images of Cersei to his mind. If that had been the Dreadfort, he would not have left a woman that alluring unrutted. He shut his eyes tight, trying to gain control of his humors until the purging could begin. After far too an agonizingly long time he heard a sound in the room. He couldn't help himself, he was practically writhing on the bed; "at last," he whispered.

A familiar small hand pressed against his breast.

A smile of anticipatory relief twitched on Roose Bolton's face.

The bed ropes moaned softly at the weight of a light body shifting on to the mattress.

The almost flush pale man felt pressure on one thigh, and then also the other thigh. The familiar small hand softly clasped his engorged leech. The wet, warm, velvety purse plunged down hard on his member. "Oh my flayer of a Bolton," the husky, excited voice purred. She rose. She fell. His eyelids fluttered in delight. "No," she gasped, gently placing finger tips over his brow. "Keep them … ooooh, closed."

Up and down she cantered and galloped. He obeyed, keeping his eyes shut, the madness upon him. He clenched her hips and drove her harder. If he'd had a whip at hand he'd have strapped her flesh. Onward they rushed together. Not a purging, but almost as good. More, faster. "Almost. Almost," she squeaked. "There!" she cried. He felt her stride lurch. His leech flooded her with his seed. She collapsed on top of him, pert small breasts pressed into his hairless chest. "Oh that was nice, my flayer," she giggled softly.

He opened his milk white eyes at last and feasted on the large black ones staring back at him. "Shae," he said softly, feeling something almost like affection for his whore and mistress.


End file.
